


Soul, Be Unwritten

by jenny_of_oldstones



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Red Dead Redemption (Video Games), Red Dead Redemption 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Daemons, Gen, His Dark Materials AU, Low Honor Arthur Morgan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2020-09-30 21:20:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20453720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenny_of_oldstones/pseuds/jenny_of_oldstones
Summary: “There are studies being conducted on criminals right now to determine whether or not their daemons are predictive. If a man has a rattlesnake for a daemon, isn’t it more likely for him to turn out to be a murderer than a banker?”“Some folks would say the two are one in the same,” said Arthur.“A poor example, but consider it: how many outlaws have you seen with butterfly daemons? Or mice? Your own daemon is a savage cur. Look at him, he’s clearly tasted blood before.”The black coyote lay on the floor with his head on his paws, eyes staring coldly ahead. Levin wasn't wrong.





	1. Chapter 1

“I have a proposition for you,” said Theodore Levin.

“Let me guess,” said Arthur. “You want me to hunt down and photograph more famous gunslingers who’ll sooner put a bullet in me than say hello?”

“Not at all,” said Levin. He was sweating profusely in the sticky heat of the Rhodes saloon. Red dust clung to the legs of his trousers and the sides of his suitcase. “But rest assured, it pays just as well.”

“I’m listening,” said Arthur.

“I want you,” said Levin, pausing for effect, “to photograph the members of the Dutch van der Linde gang.”

“Not happening,” said Arthur.

“I’m not a bounty hunter, Mr. Morgan. It would be extremely foolish of me to try to trick you. There’s good money to be made here, for both of us.”

“And what would do you with a bunch of pictures of the van der Linde gang?” asked Arthur. “Write another book filled with lies?”

“No, actually. It’s for a private collector. None of the pictures will be published.”

“A private collector, huh.” Arthur ran a finger through the foam on his beer and licked it. It was midday, and the bar was empty save for a man passed out and a couple of bored working girls fanning themselves on a settee. “What kind of private collector?”

“The usual kind—eccentric. He’s a rich man with a keen interest in the wild west. Specifically, he’s a man interested in the daemons of famous outlaws.”

“Daemons?” said Arthur. “Why?”

“A pet theory of his. From what he’s shared with me, he's convinced there’s a correlation between the shape a daemon settles in and moral degeneracy.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“There are a lot of brilliant minds who'd disagree with you. Why, there are journals being published right now that are proving that the daemons of criminals are predictive. If a boy has a rattlesnake for a daemon, isn’t it more likely for him to turn out to be a murderer than a banker?”

“Some folks would say the two are one in the same,” said Arthur.

“A poor example, but consider it: how many outlaws have you seen with butterfly daemons? Or mice? Your own daemon is a savage cur. Look at him, he’s clearly tasted blood before.”

The black coyote lay on the floor with his head on his paws, staring coldly ahead. 

“By taking the pictures, you’d be helping a man with his scientific research,” said Levin. “Think of it as a good cause.”

“Good cause, huh. You’ll forgive me for saying so, but this sounds awful dubious.”

“It’s not as if your names and faces aren’t already on every wanted poster in five states,” said Levin.

“Still, I think I’ll pass.”

“I’ll pay you a hundred dollars for each photograph.”

The coyote's ear twitched. “That’s a lot of money for pictures,” said Arthur.

“It is,” said Levin, “and you know I’m good for it.”

Arthur did know. He had been receiving a steady stream of royalties from Levin since he’d helped him finish his Calloway book. Two-thousand dollars was a lot to turn down, especially when Dutch’s scheme of unearthing Confederate gold was beginning to feel more and more like a pipedream.

“You know what I’ll do to you if this turns out to be a ruse, “said Arthur.

“I imagine it’ll involve a lot of bullets.”

They shook on it. Arthur drained the last suds from his beer and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I guess I’ll mail them to the same address?”

“That’ll do.” Levin rose and gathered his bag. His blue-tailed skink daemon darted up his sleeve to settle on his shoulder. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Morgan.”

“Sure,” said Arthur, pushing back his chair. The coyote shook the dust out of his fur and followed him.

“And remember!” shouted Levin. “Make sure the daemons are distinct and clear in each photograph!”

Arthur pushed the doors open and stepped out into the blistering Lemoyne afternoon, his coyote at his heels.


	2. Chapter 2

“You want to take pictures of the gang, to sell to some degenerate, to prove that we are, in fact, degenerates,” said Dutch.

“More or less,” said Arthur.

Dutch was sitting spread-legged on his chair, smoking a cigar. It was the kind of afternoon where everyone and everything was dozing in the shade and trying not to move much. Arthur had already stripped off his duster, guns, and vest, and was considering taking his shirt off, too. The camera Levin had given him was sweaty in his hands.

“You’re sure this fool isn’t acting on behalf of the Pinkertons?” asked Dutch.

“Can’t imagine what good it would do him,” said Arthur. “They already know all our names and faces.”

Dutch drew on his cigar. Vera lay curled up in the grass at his feet, looking hot and disgruntled.

“How much did he offer?” asked Dutch.

“A hundred a pop,” said Arthur. “So about two thousand and a half.”

“Shit, we should have been taking pictures of ourselves ages ago.”

“Mind if I take yours now, or you need to gussy up first?”

Dutch stood with a smile and thumped Arthur on the chest. “I need to gussy up first."

After Dutch had put on a proper suit, run a comb through his hair, and buffed the dust and mud off his boots, he took a solid five minutes trying to decide a pose. The rest of the camp watched him from their tents as he put one boot up on his chair, sat down in the chair, stood up, drew his pistol, holstered it, then sat down again.

“You need a girl on your lap!” shouted Hosea from the domino table. Molly looked over from where she stood on the shore, then returned to her gazing at the water.

“You volunteering?” asked Dutch.

“I’m saying that if it’s just a picture of your ugly mug, no one will buy it,” said Hosea.

“I’ll have you know that this is for the noble pursuit of science,” said Dutch. “Or some such. The details are a little beyond me—you’ll have to ask Arthur.”

“Don’t worry,” said Arthur, peering through the lens of the camera. “Everyone will get a turn.”

“Oh, I can’t wait,” said Hosea.

Dutch finally settled on a standing pose, two pistols in his hand, arms crossed. Arthur thought it looked a little ridiculous, but he wasn’t about to say so.

“Get Vera where I can see her,” said Arthur. “That was part of the deal.”

Vera climbed up Dutch’s leg and over his folded arms to perch on his shoulder. She was an enormous polecat, sable brown with black feet, black tail, and a black mask. She arched her back in a hump, letting her tail dangle down.

“Should I show teeth?” she asked.

Most of the time, daemons spoke only to their partners and other daemons. Arthur couldn’t remember how many years it had been since he’d heard Vera’s gravel-and-whiskey voice. “Sure. This feller wants to prove that we’re moral degenerates, might as well sell it to him.”

Vera peeled back her muzzle to show her yellow canines. Arthur backed up a few paces, checked the viewfinder, and took the picture. Dutch relaxed and shook out his arms. “That all?”

“Should be,” said Arthur.

“Good, because I’m wading through a swamp in this coat,” said Dutch, and tore off his bandana.

Arthur turned the crank on the camera and started over to where Hosea was sitting. “Your turn, old man.”

“Uh-oh.” Hosea took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “You going to make us stand up?”

“Nah, you can sit there. Wouldn’t want you pulling anything.”

“We’ll see how much you’re laughing when you get to be my age,” said Hosea.

Hosea’s fox was still, after all these years, one of the most beautiful daemons Arthur had ever seen. She was black and silver with molten orange eyes and white paws that never seemed to dirty. She sat on Hosea’s lap now with her tail wrapped around herself, regal as a queen.

“You buy into all this crap?” asked Arthur, moving around and trying to find the best angle. “That a daemon’s shape says something about the morals of the man?”

“I don’t know,” said Hosea. “Sometimes it feels like every thug with a gun has a bigger, meaner daemon than the last, and then you run into the meanest bastard and he’s got a shrew. People are more complicated than they appear.”

“And how many conmen have fox daemons?” asked Arthur.

"Ha. What do you think my dear?” he asked his fox. “Did you settle this way because we’re incurably devious and shifty?”

“I wouldn’t rule it out as a factor,” she said.

“There you go, Arthur, straight from the expert,” said Hosea. “Minerva always did have a better head on her shoulders than I did.”

Arthur took the picture. When the camera was done making its whirring noises, he swung a leg over the table bench and sat across from Hosea. Minerva and the coyote darted under the table to pant in the shade.

“I mean, it does seem like that there are more mean bastards out there with bloodthirsty daemons than there aren't,” said Arthur. “Gators, mastiffs, wolverines.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” said Hosea. “Why any daemon settles in the shape it does is history’s greatest mystery. You can wrack you brain about it all day long, asking yourself why a daemon settled as one shape or the other, why some types of men seem to gravitate toward certain animals, but you’ll never get closer to the truth. Why, does it bother you?"

"Course not."

"Good. Are you going to take more pictures?”

“Need to mix more powder,” said Arthur. “And it’s too damn hot.”

“Then sit back, sweat a little,” said Hosea, turning his face up to the sun dappling through the leaves above them. “And put it out of your head.”

“Sure,” said Arthur, and heard the coyote yawn beneath the table.


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur mailed the two photos off to Levin the next morning. On his way back to camp, he spotted some turkeys pecking in the underbrush, and steered his horse off the trail after them.

The coyote ran ahead to the end of their tether, right where the distance started to hurt. He barked, and the turkeys jumped into the air, flapping their wings. By that time, Arthur already had his bow out, and he took the shot.

“You’ve gotten better,” said the coyote when he dismounted. The arrow had gone through the turkey’s chest. It was still kicking a little, so Arthur wrung its neck. He strung it to his saddle and mounted up again.

The shade along the path to Clement’s Point was a welcome reprieve from the cloudless sky. Arthur pulled his horse up to a hitching post and untied the turkey, already feeling languorous and dropsied with the heat. He threw the turkey over his shoulder, and nearly tripped over Jack as he ran underfoot.

“Woah there!” He hooked the strap of Jack’s suspenders with a finger and tugged him back from the horses. “Ain’t your mama never told you to never to run around near the back end of a horse?”

“Yes, Uncle Arthur,” said Jack. His daemon, Little Gwen, became a mouse on his shoulder. It was a trick he’d picked up recently—the more he got in trouble, the cuter his daemon became.

“You know I’m only fussing at you because no one here wants you to get kicked in the head. You’re little enough to give these horses a real spook, if you’re not careful,” said Arthur.

“Is that a turkey?” asked Jack.

“Yeah,” said Arthur. “You want to help Pearson pluck it?”

“It hurts my hands,” said Jack.

“Work ain’t supposed to fun. You know it’s one of your chores.” The boy was so obviously eager to be away that Arthur sighed. “But I won’t tell anyone if you want to play instead.”

“Okay!” said Jack, brightly. Little Gwen turned into a red squirrel. She hopped off his shoulder onto the coyote, who allowed it, then jumped back to her partner.

“Scoot, now,” said Arthur, and hollered as Jack ran off, “and keep away from the horses!”

As Arthur walked into camp, he realized he was being watched. Mary-Beth sat against the trunk of the big tree with a book in her lap, smiling at him.

“I saw you, Arthur Morgan.”

“Doing what?” Arthur dropped the turkey onto Pearson’s butcher block.

“Doing what you do when you think no one’s looking,” said Mary-Beth.

“I got no idea what you’re talking about,” he said.

Mary-Beth giggled. “Sure.”

Arthur wiped his bloody hands on the grass. The camp was strangely quiet. “Where is everyone?”

“I think some of the boys are downstream fishing,” said Mary-Beth. “I know Karen and Abigail said they were going to wash in the spring some ways up the road. Micah wanted to go into town for god knows what reason, and Bill and Uncle went with him. Everyone’s else is just trying not to wilt under this awful sun.”

Arthur pulled up an apple crate and sat beside her. It felt half-bearable under the shade of the oak tree, if an oak tree was what it was.

“What are you reading?” he asked.

“Oh, you know, trash.” She turned over the book to let him see. It had a garish cover showing some woman tied up on a railroad track with her petticoats all pushed up. Two men with hairy chests were having a fistfight over her. “What were you doing in town?”

“Mailing some things, buying some things.”

“Did it have anything to do with those pictures you took?”

“Yeah,” said Arthur. Mary-Beth had that keen look in her eye. “Why, you want yours done?”

“I heard you were going to take one of everyone,” said Mary-Beth. “So…”

“Miss Gaskill,” said Arthur, “I do believe I espy vanity in your interest.”

“It’s not every day that you have a chance to get dressed up for a proper photograph,” said Mary-Beth. Her daemon flapped down from a branch and landed on her shoulder. He was an especially dapper magpie, glossy black with white and iridescent fans on his wings. “I think we’d both be very interested.”

“I wouldn’t call it proper, but…” Arthur sighed. “Give me a second to cook up the powders.”

Mary-Beth gathered her skirts and ran back to her wagon. Arthur went to his own tent and opened up the camera box, placing the chemicals in the proper compartments the way Levin had shown him how. By the time he came back, Mary Beth had let down her hair and fixed a shift around her shoulders with a bright silver broach. She was wearing a great deal more jewelry than Arthur expected—including a ruby the size of a pigeon egg on her ring finger and a necklace of seedling pearls around her neck.

“I ain’t gonna ask where a nice girl like you got all that silver,” said Arthur.

“Oh, you know me,” said Mary-Beth. "Always finding trinkets in the oddest of places. Now, where do you want me to sit?”

Arthur pointed to one of the logs near the campfire covered in a wolf blanket. Mary-Beth swept her dress under herself and sat down.

“He gonna be on your lap or your shoulder?” asked Arthur, peering through the lens.

“My lap,” said Mary-Beth. “Looks more like I’m a lady that way.”

She did look like a lady, sitting there proper with her silky bird daemon on her lap. Arthur found a good angle and lit the fuse. The camera box whirred and a puff of smoke coughed out a hole on its side. He waved his hand through it. “It’s done.”

Mary-Beth smiled and flung off her shawl. “This is for some rich collector man?”

“Something like that.” Arthur tucked the camera carefully back in his satchel. “He's some bigshot from the city trying to prove that a person’s daemon means something awful about them or other.”

“Oh. Mean something how?”

“Like if you got a daemon with fangs and claws it means you're rotten on the inside. Or, if you’ve got a butterfly you’re a saint, I don’t know.”

Mary-Beth and her daemon exchanged a look. “I mean, isn't that true?”

“No,” said Arthur. He sat down on the log across from her. The coyote sniffed through the ashes of the campfire, searching for scraps. “Why, what do you think?”

“Well, I mean, the Good Book says that Jesus had a lamb for a daemon, on account of that he was pure-hearted. Lots of people think that way.”

“Sure, and I once knew a man with a sheep daemon who'd let wild sheep mount her on long, cold nights. Don’t mean anything.”

“Oh, Arthur, that’s horrible!”

“It’s a horrible world,” said Arthur.

“I’m just saying, I don’t think a daemon comes out of nothing. I mean, Belenus and I both like stealing things. When he settled, it just felt right. I always knew I was a thief at heart, even when I tried hard not to be. It made sense that that’s what my daemon would be, too.”

“But that’s not all you are,” said Arthur. “You can’t just boil a magpie down to stealing shiny things.”

“It’s what most people boil them down to,” said Mary-Beth. “And it’s the part of me that keeps me in trouble. My mama always used to say, that which does not wash out will stain you through and through.”

“That’s…” Arthur disagreed, but he couldn’t find of the words to say why. He was oddly agitated. “People are more complicated than that.”

“Not always,” said Mary-Beth, stroking her magpie’s back. “I think we’re either the best of ourselves or the worst.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I just think,” said Mary-Beth, “we can’t be more than who we are.”

The cicadas were screeching in the trees. Arthur was about to reply, when Mary-Beth’s face went white. He turned, and saw Sean galloping into camp, his waistcoat streaked with blood.

“Arthur!” He wheeled his horse around, his daemon flapping in wide circles above his head. “We got a problem.”

* * *

Arthur spurred his horse over the hills. The coyote sprinted alongside him, his heart thundering the same as Arthur's own. 

He heard the crack of gunfire as he and Sean turned down a muddy road to a desolate strand of rocks and trees. The smell of gunsmoke was in the air, and the coyote slunk low to the ground, keeping his head down. Sean’s daemon swooped down and landed on his shoulder.

“There’s seven of them, maybe more,” said Sean, dismounting his horse. He ripped a rifle from his saddle holster. “They’ve got Lenny and John pinned down behind some rocks in the river.”

Arthur tugged his sawed-off shotgun from its holster. He grabbed Billy Midnight’s pistol and started running toward the sound of gunfire. He ran at an angle, lifting his legs high through the leaves, the coyote bounding behind him. He saw a flash of gunfire in the gloom and threw himself against the trunk of a tree.

Their faded gray uniforms stuck out in the undergrowth. Arthur counted five Lemoyne Raiders in cover on the hillside, their guns pointed at where the trees ended and sand and water began.

Sean came creeping through the brush. He crouched behind a boulder and aimed his rifle.

The coyote growled.

Arthur aimed his pistol at the exposed back of a Lemoyne Raider and fired. The man splattered against the boulder he was hiding behind, his badger daemon snuffing out like a light. Arthur shot at another man, then pulled back behind the tree.

The Raiders were shouting at each other. Bark splintered off the tree Arthur was hiding behind. Sean ducked out, took a shot with his rifle, then pulled back.

“Two more coming down on the right!” he shouted.

Arthur spied them. They were running, and he took sights down the barrel of the pistol. The first shot spit in the dirt but the second hit a shoulder, sending one man down. A shot from Sean sent his friend scurrying behind a tree.

Arthur edged around his cover, scanning the forest. There, in the canopy, he saw the black scales of a rat snake coiling around a branch. He aimed and shot at her, once, twice, and she disintegrated into golden dust. A man screamed in despair somewhere distant.

“Good eye!” cackled Sean. “Must have sent her up there for safe keeping, the dummy.”

Arthur reloaded. The coyote crouched in the leaves, waiting.

“John, Lenny!” shouted Sean. “You two still alive?”

“We’re down here!” shouted John.

Arthur tracked a running Raider and took a shot at him. His second bullet found him and sent him to the dirt.

“We’re coming to get you!” shouted Sean. “The whole cavalry!”

Arthur could hear the Raiders giving orders to each other-- military jargon that made little sense to him. The Raiders were caught between two fronts with nowhere to run. Their only option was to hunker down and cover all their angles, both at the river and at the ridge. It was time for Arthur to move before they collected themselves.

"Let's go to work," said the coyote. 

Arthur darted for a tree further down the hill. Then, keeping low, he ran, his coyote like a shadow beside him, his shotgun heavy and loaded in his hand.

He hit the first Raider like a landslide. He cracked him across the face with the stock of the shotgun and then shot him twice in the chest with the pistol. The second Raider spun about, leveling his rifle, and the coyote lunged at his rat daemon. The coyote bit the daemon and shook it back and forth, and the man crumpled, seconds before Arthur pumped him full of lead.

There was one left, and Arthur heard the gunshot before he could react. His arm jerked, and he turned. The Raider was on one knee, his gun pointed at Arthur’s chest.

Time slowed down. A red mist fell over Arthur’s eyes. He pulled the trigger on the shotgun and pistol. The raider’s head burst into pulp, and Arthur fired again, and again, and again.

Silence followed the gunfire. Arthur crouched amidst the corpses, listening hard.

“All clear, I think!” said Sean. “You boys all right?”

“Yeah,” said Lenny. Arthur heard splashing, and Lenny and John came up behind him. They still had their guns leveled, checking the field. “Thanks, man.”

“Thought you’d run out on us, MacGuire,” said John. He was wet up to the waist. “Last thing I saw was your red head tailing it out of here.”

“Figured I needed a madman to finish off this mad lot,” said Sean. He pulled a flask out of his hip pocket and tugged the cork out with his teeth. “Would have brought more, but apparently everyone else’d gone fishing.”

“Arthur was enough,” said Lenny.

“And damned lucky he was on hand,” said Sean, taking a swig. “A few more minutes, and Marston here would have had to swim for it, and we all know how that would have ended.”

“Shut up,” said John. He let his rifle go slack in his hands. His timber wolf shook out her fur. “You all right, Arthur?”

Arthur was trembling. He stepped over a log, then tramped through the dry leaves to where a Raider lay on his back. The Raider's eyes followed him, blood on his lips.

The Raider was young, no more than a kid. His cap had fallen off his head, and his toad daemon was kicking in the mud next to him, her little chest fluttering. The boy didn’t move from where he lay, just watched him, his hand over the hole in his shoulder.

“Got one, Arthur?” called Sean.

Arthur didn’t answer. He slung open the shotgun and fished out the spent shells.

“We should ask him where his buddies are hiding,” said John. “I swear, there were more of them when we rode by.”

“You just weren’t counting right,” said Lenny.

“What do you think, Arthur?” asked Sean.

Arthur pulled two slugs from his duster pocket and slipped them in the chamber. Then he slung the shotgun closed, and pointed it at the boy’s head. The coyote pinned the toad daemon with a paw and sank his fangs into her back leg. The boy’s face twisted up with pain as his daemon began to scream.

“What do you want from me?” he gasped.

Arthur didn’t answer. He listened as the coyote pulled the toad's leg off, then started on the other one.

“What do you want from me?” the Raider asked again, weaker. ”What do you want—”

Arthur cocked the hammer and pulled the trigger.

Blood misted over his face. Red slapped the coyote like paint on the side of a barn. Gold sparks dissipated between his jaws, and his black fur dripped with gore.

The silence came back. Birdsong filtered through it, and under it all, the loud sound of Arthur’s breathing.

“Hey,” said John, “your shoulder.”

Arthur blinked and touched his arm. There was a hole there, and a river of blood running warm down his fingers.

He hadn't even felt it. 


	4. Chapter 4

Arthur rode with Lenny, Marston, and Sean back to camp. Dutch and the rest had long returned from their fishing and were relieved to see them. Marston filled them in on the details with Lenny spicing it up to make them look better, until Miss Grimshaw’s eyes honed in on the blood soaking into Arthur’s sleeve.

“Have a seat, Mr. Morgan.” She ushered him into his tent. Obediently, he sat down on his bunk. Miss Grimshaw helped him unbutton his duster and shirt and unstuck them from his arm. The bullet had passed clean through, and the hole was a blackened mess of tattered flesh.

“You got whiskey?” she asked.

Arthur nodded at his pack, and she drew out a scuffed bottle of gin. She shoved it in his hand, and Arthur took a swig.

"This will hurt," said Miss Grimshaw.

Arthur said nothing. The coyote lay on the grass outside the tent. His molten eyes followed Miss Grimshaw’s hand as she heated a needle in a candle flame, then set the glowing point to Arthur’s skin.

* * *

Arthur was laid up for three days. The wound was raw, and Miss Grimshaw was firm that he needed his rest if it was to heal properly.

He hadn’t spoken much of a word to anyone since the shootout. Dutch poked his head in once to make sure he was all right, but everyone else sensed the darkness of his mood and stayed away. They treated him like a smoking volcano, and that was wise of them.

The madness had departed, and in its wake was a vast emptiness. It didn't make sense. The boy had been a raider—a demented maniac drunk on nostalgia for slavery. He had tried to kill Arthur and his friends, and probably deserved worse than a face full of lead.

But Arthur's own cruelty disturbed him. He didn’t have Micah’s sadism or Dutch’s clarity. All his life, there had been a grain of worry twisting inside him, carving out a hole that grew bigger every year, filled with the guilt and shame of a lifetime of inflicted horrors.

What if he had let the boy go? Maybe he would have given up his rebel ambitions. He might have run home to his family, if he had one, gone straight, lived a good life.

The black coyote slept peacefully under his bunk. He’d always been quieter than Arthur, like a cavern lake, compared to the raging sea inside of him.

* * *

“Arthur!”

Arthur moved his hat off his face. Sean’s head poked through the flaps of his tent. “Yeah?”

“Just making sure you weren’t dead.” Sean stepped inside and sat himself down on the only chair. His daemon, a big woodpecker with green feathers and a red cap, shifted on his shoulder. “Camp is duller than dirt.”

“Ain’t my problem.” Arthur moved his hat back over his face. “Get lost.”

“Is that any way to talk to a pal?”

“Scram.”

“Arthur Morgan, you are a bastard and a luddite, and I love you for it.” Sean gave his staccato laugh, and his daemon cackled, too. “I came to ask, can I borrow your hair pomade?”

“What for?”

“Just to touch myself up.” The boy’s voice was a little too light, a little too airy. Arthur moved his hat again.

“Who you trying to impress?” asked Arthur. “Because Karen's not gonna care if you grease your hair or not if you keep sniffing under her skirt like a dog with two dicks.”

“What do you know about women, Arthur Morgan? In all the time I've known you, I've never seen you once in a cathouse.”

“I’d rather not be scratching at myself like you and Bill Williamson.”

“Fine, you don’t want the whores. They probably don’t want you neither. What about a girl? A wife? When’s the last time you got yourself properly knackered?”

“None of your business.”

“Stick to the celibate life and people will start calling you a molly, you watch. Don’t help that your daemon’s male neither.”

Arthur held Sean’s gaze until the kid held up his hands. “Kidding, kidding! Can I borrow it or not?”

Arthur pawed around his table until he found the round tin and chucked it at Sean. The boy caught it and pried the lid open. He began applying big slabs of it, until his lank red hair glistened.

“You look like you haven't washed in a month,” said Arthur.

“And I haven’t!” Sean stood up and held his arms out. “What do you think?”

The kid did look smarter than usual. He’d actually put on a vest that wasn’t stained with sweat and dusted the red clay off his trousers.

“Someone will have you,” said Arthur.

Sean grinned. “Hey, while I’m pretty, take a picture of me. I heard you’re selling them to some rich prick for a mint.”

Arthur assumed it was as good a time as any. Making sure not to jostle his arm, he pulled the camera out of his pack and set it on his knees. Sean sat back down in the chair and set one of Arthur’s rifles across his lap.

“Where should I be?” asked the woodpecker. She had a surprisingly lyrical voice, not at all like Sean’s braying.

“Wherever you want,” said Arthur. “So long as you’re in the picture, don’t matter.”

“Sit here, Aisling,” said Sean, and tapped the rifle. The woodpecker flapped her speckled wings and settled on the barrel.

A flash, a puff of smoke, and the camera whirred. Arthur set it aside and stretched his back. He had been lying down too long.

“See you later, Arthur.” Sean started out, then paused. “And thanks for the other day. You pulled us out of the fire with those raiders. Can always count on good old Morgan for a bloodbath.”

Arthur prodded the tender flesh around his stitches. “Sure.”

Sean walked out the tent. A minute later, Arthur heard him shout, “Karen! You’re in luck, my girl, because I have come a-courting!”

Arthur shook his head and reached for a shirt. The wound stung, but he needed a good laugh.


End file.
